Torpid
by 1Past and Present1
Summary: Intimacy un-realised.


"You don't have to. I'm fine."

"I know."

"And yet you persist."

"You're not doing a whole lot to stop me."

"I don't mind."

"Good."

"Merely curious."

"This is mostly for me."

"I appear cold."

"Yeah."

"But I am not."

"Just… give me a break."

"Why are you reluctant to acknowledge your own empathy?"

Rouge grunts dismissively whilst drawing the corners of the blanket around Shadow's slender frame, essentially tucking him in with chasteness, tenderness and respect that she'd show no one else.

"You wish to 'mend' me, to improve my condition, although it is something I do not feel – you concern yourself with what you perceive on my behalf."

"Fuck off with stating the obvious."

"Is it obvious that I find this endearing of you?"

"You asshole," she mutters, her lips close to his cheek. "Now that I've bundled you up so nicely, I ought to clobber you for your mischief."

"Idle, affectionate threats. I am unafraid."

"This is my house, remember?"

"You did tell me to make myself at home."

"Do you ever not pay attention?"

There's a pause in which man and woman breathe together.

"You're holding me," he whispers. "Why am I not offended?"

"Because you're drunk, my dear."

"And you?"

"A little less drunk."

He's smirking at her, even as she finally withdraws slowly and with cold, fondly rolling eyes.

"God, it's not my fault I'm getting soft, okay. And we can't blame the booze. This has been… sometime coming."

"Is it my fault?"

"Obviously."

"Your pet project."

"If you wanna call yourself that, sure."

"You've taken good care of me. Perhaps that is truly why I'm unoffended."

"Shit. What a bizarre conversation this has turned into."

His gaze is enough to make her blush, even when he allows her to recover in his silence.

"You think you're so badass, honey, and yeah, I agree. But I can see your vulnerabilities. You're still so new to this world. I've tried to teach you, but still." She scratches her cheek delicately, her brows gently downcast. "Someone cunning and nasty could take certain advantages of you. Someone even worse than I. And I'm not sure I can ever truly do enough to prepare you, as hard as that is to accept, and I dunno if you'll even listen at the crucial time. A mixture of your pride and mine."

He watches her fidget for several seconds before she speaks again.

"And I haven't even known you that long. But I worry about you and I care way more than I should. More than I thought I would, or even could."

"I don't mean to make you worry."

"I know. And I know you well enough to know that I must take care of you, anyway. Gotta keep you safe, even if that means pointlessly trying to keep you warm at night. I'm drunk and it feels nice to finally let myself close to you like that. I took a chance that you wouldn't push me away because of booze, or because of something else."

"You took advantage of me."

"I never said I'm a good person, hon," she whispers. "If I were to self-reflect, I'd look in the mirror and find that I'm not even a decent person."

"I disagree."

"Thanks. But you're a bit of a shithead, too."

He inclines his head agreeably.

She reaches for the remote, changing channels with unfocused disinterest.

"Rouge, that's–"

"Don't."

"Fine. Regardless, I appreciate it."

She blinks slowly, thoughtfully, but doesn't look his way.

"Likewise," he murmurs, peering out from his blanket cocoon. He marvels at himself, for having been quite amenable to being so thoroughly fussed over. "I'm here for you, too."

Her lips part slightly, then reseal themselves, as if having emitted a decapitated sigh, trapping most of it within her tensed jaw.

He turns to the television, giving her reprieve once more.

"No problem, hon."

His smirk deepens.

In the moments that follow she tries to relax, shifting her body as if to get comfortable on the other end of the couch, drawing her long legs toward herself, embracing a cushion, chewing her plump lip. She is wearing fluffy pyjamas, rendering her in comforting, soft shapes.

"Cold?"

"A bit."

"Let's share, then."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"That was not the intent behind my invitation. But you need the blanket more than I do and I'll only upset you if I give it away to you, so–"

"Shut up, handsome, I'm coming."

He peels back the corner and she slips inside, bringing the other half of the blanket over herself as she awkwardly nestles alongside him.

He allows her to settle before remarking in a drawl, "You _are_ cold."

"Is it a bother?"

"No."

"Good. Too late now, anyway."

His smirk fades.

She stares at the television, a little tense due to excitement and anxiety at once.

"Are you afraid of me, right now?"

"A little." She cautiously tilts her head, resting it against his cheek and shoulder. "But it's not because you're dangerous."

"I'm a little frightened, too."

"Because I'm dangerous."

He nods, eyes closed, unintentionally grazing against her as he begins to doze to the lowered volume of an infomercial about something he doesn't try to understand.

"I wish I could call myself a gentlewoman. I wish I could promise I won't do something inappropriate enough to hurt you. I can only promise that I won't mean to. To hurt you, I mean."

He is asleep.

She realises, as a superficially romantic movie begins to play out before her aquamarine eyes, that she hasn't resumed her fruitless search for the right channel. She decides that the effort just isn't worth it right now.

His hand is on her thigh.

She wonders if he deliberately put it there or if this is something she can otherwise excuse. As the couple onscreen do things intended to garner positive reactions from the audience, her eyes flutter shut, internalising her judgements and swallowing her urges.

Tomorrow they'll wake, together, with a headache.


End file.
